


In Search of the Right Word

by tactfulGnostalgic



Series: The Sun We Know [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Book Signing, F/F, Mention of Character Death (Minor), Mentions of alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tactfulGnostalgic/pseuds/tactfulGnostalgic
Summary: The line between fiction and reality is thin and blurred, and your writing tends to land squarely in the middle of that blurry metaphysical mess. It's odd how strangers seem to notice that more than anyone you're close to.





	

 

ii.

Book signing is a pain in the ass, but you do it, because fuck if you don't love your fans.

It's not that you don't like meeting them - that's pretty much the only part that makes it enjoyable - but sitting behind the same table for nine hours, making virtually the same speech, and signing page after page with a rapidly deteriorating scrawl? (It may have started as a legible "Roxy Lalonde," but quickly deteriorated to a hasty "Ro-Lal," and then, near the end of the day, "RL," with a bunch of scribbles after it. None of your readers seem to notice, much less mind.) It wears at you. By the time there are twenty, twenty-five customers left in line, your hand is aching so badly you can barely grip the pen, and your spine throbs from having assumed the same pose for hours at a time. You're so tired you can barely look your fans in the eye, which is a pain in the ass, because you want to meet all of them and smile and be the author they see in interviews. But you're not. Right now, you're barely a person, much less the flirty, vibrant one they see on the back cover.

Jake stopped in at lunchtime with a turkey sub and an orange soda from Dirk, for which you hugged him and maybe cried a little bit. He stuck around for fifteen minutes, but the crowd did a number on him, and when he started jittering anxiously you gave him a firm pat on the back and sent him away. He was a sweetie to stay as long as he did. But you haven't seen any of your friends since then, and you're not looking forward to driving yourself home. You don't think it'll be a safe drive. You saw a statistic somewhere that driving while sleepy was equivalent to a blood alcohol level of  0.08%, or some such statistic that Dirk threw at you after the last book signing. You ignored him, because what does he know? (A whole fucking lot, it turns out.)

The relief that hits you when you realize you've reached the last person is overwhelming, and you do your best to summon a jovial smile for them. "Hey, there," you croak. "What can I do for you?" You reach for the book in their hand, wondering which one it is. Most people bring their copy of  _Wizardly Herbert,_ which was your bestseller, or one of the spinoffs featuring his friends. 

Instead, the woman laughs anxiously and slides a slim volume across the table. "Hi," she mumbles. "Uh, it's nice to meet you? I was wondering if you could sign this? Please. If you want."

You blink in surprise. It's  _Serenity,_ a short book that you wrote maybe two years ago, before you made it big with WH and his series. It was more serious than your other work - more memoir than fiction, a thinly veiled account of your struggle with alcoholism. It was a critical success but a commercial failure, and won a few small local prizes, but otherwise faded quickly. You didn't think that it was still in print.

"Oh," you say. "I - yeah, of course." You flip open the cover, wince at the poorly constructed summary (the publishers' doing, not yours), and then glance up. You get a good look at her for the first time. She's lovely, with russet-brown skin and a thin fuzz of black hair sprouting from her shaven head. Her eyes, wide and green, blink at you hesitantly, and you catch yourself staring. You blink. "Who should I make it out to?"

"Calliope," she says. "Uh, if you - I mean, yeah. Calliope."

"Sure," you say. You say your message as you write it: "To Calliope - with much love." Then you sign, trying to make it as legible as possible, and then flip the cover closed and hand it back with as much of a smile as you can manage. "Thanks for your patience, Callie."

"Thank you," she blurts, and then clutches it to her chest, as if the book were some precious thing. "I - uh, thanks." She seems to wrestle with something on her tongue for a minute, and then her shoulders sag, and she turns to leave. You watch her go. 

You start cleaning up the table. Put the pens into a box, toss the empty ones into the trash, collect the wrappers and coffee cups, pack up your things and prepare for the long way home. You should probably call a friend to pick you up, but you can't remember any of them being free; it's date night for Dirk and Jake, and Jane is at work until ten on Tuesdays. You could walk, but it would be eight miles in the rain and you're not certain your legs will take you that far.

Calliope halts at the door, stiffens, and then strides back to your table. You look up in alarm; she takes a deep breath, and then blurts, "I loved your book."

"Thank you. I, uh - it was an unusual choice. Most people bring in the good ol' WH, or one of his pals."

" _Wizardly Herbert_ was fantastic, of course," she exclaims. "It's not like I didn't like it, because I did, but I couldn't bring two books? Or five? I really like all of your work, it's just - it's just swell, but _Serenity_ \- it was what got me into illustrating, because the scene with Beatrice and her mother? It was the first time I'd ever wanted to draw anything, and it was just - it made me cry." She sucks in another breath. "And I wanted to thank you for that, because, well, I just. You know."

"Wow. Uh, thank you! I mean." You want to kick yourself. "I mean, that's awesome, and I'm super flattered. Man, I don't deserve that kinda praise, but thanks."

"No," she says. "You - you do, and I'm sorry. I'm rambling, but I was really excited. To meet you. And I guess I just bungled it, blurting everything out -"

"Hey, nah," you comfort her, because tears are welling in her eyes. "You're totally fine. Trust me, you didn't bungle anything."

"Right." She nods. "Thanks for saying so. Anyway, I'd better go."

"Somebody waiting?" You try to lighten the mood.

It fails. "No," she says. "Not really."

"Oh. M' sorry."

"It's quite okay. I don't mind it." You try to smile, move around the table, and then stub your toe. You clutch it, letting loose a stream of expletives that are probably audible in the next shop over.

"Oh dear!" She rushes over, hands outstretched, as if to catch you. "Are you all right?"

"M' fine," you grunt. "I'm just not feeling that coordination tonight, y'know?" You smile weakly. "Sorry. Not making a great first impression, am I?"

She shakes her head. "You shouldn't be driving if you're out of sorts," she says. "I could -" She pales suddenly, knitting her fingers together. "No, that'd be weird, wouldn't it? Sorry. I'm sorry."

"No, what were you going to say?"

"I was going - to offer," she mumbles, "to drive you home - if you wanted - but obviously, you probably don't want me knowing your address - which is fine! You deserve privacy, authors deserve privacy, don't they? And you don't want fans stalking you - that's smart, you know. And you don't even know me, it was a dumb idea -"

 "Holy shit," you say, putting your hands on her shoulders, "could I use a ride. Are you offering?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. If you want one."

"Great," you say. "Give me a second to get my things."

By the time you've collected everything, she's pulled her car around to the front - a small silver Coupé with a black interior. You slide into the passenger's seat and release a long, grateful sigh. "Oh, man, Callie," you groan. "This is - this is the  _shit_ , thank you."

"It's not a problem," she says, shooting you furtive glances as she pulls away from the curb. "You're really quite welcome. You know, when I got to the signing late, I thought I'd miss you for sure, not that I'd be - not that I'd be driving you  _home_." She laughs nervously. 

"Blessing in disguise, for me," you mumble, half asleep already. "2409 Depot Street. Couple dozen blocks down."

She punches it into her GPS, and the rest of the ride is a blurred, lazy experience of you slipping in and out of sleep. Calliope swerves around the potholes in the road - the streets aren't exactly empty at this time of night, but she seems to be a skilled driver - and puts on something soft and jazzy on the radio. Her taste in music is a little strange, but it's good. When you reach your apartment, you can barely see straight.

"Hey, man," you groan, "thanks. You're a literal lifesaver, I swear to God."

"I wouldn't have wanted you driving like this," she says, frowning. "It was no problem, really."

"A'ight. Thanks anyways. Catch you later?" You open the door, wincing at the cold as it rushes into the car.

"Wait!" She rummages around in her bag, handing you a folded piece of paper. "Um. Here. I - I wasn't going to give that to you, it's kind of embarrassing, but I thought - hey, it won't matter in the long run, right?" She smiles weakly. "I just wanted you. To. Um. Remember me? I guess? I suppose fans give you all kinds of things, and I'm not particularly special in that regard, but I guess that didn't stop me."

"Aw, no," you manage. "That's - thanks a ton, let me look -"

"No! Don't look at it while I'm here. I'll just - I'll just go, and leave you. But - thanks," she says. "Your book, it - it helped me." She quiets herself, after that, biting down on her tongue.

You gape. "Oh. Oh, man, you're - you're totally welcome. Hey, if you ever need anything? Hit me up. We can go for - for drinks? Or talk about it? You seem like a cool person."

She smiles wistfully. "When you're awake, maybe," she says, and then shoos you out of her car. "Go sleep, Ms. Lalonde. I await your next novel with baited breath."

"Sure. Bye, Callie."

"Goodbye." You shut the door, and then she drives off. You realize, belatedly, that you never got her number.

You unfold the paper and hold it to the light, and your breath snags in your throat. It's a recreation of the big scene in  _Serenity_. Beatrice confronts her mother about her problem, and they fight, before Beatrice's mother confesses her own issues with substance abuse and intimacy. It's a conversation that you and your own mother never got to have before she died. It tore you up to write it, and took several weeks to get right.

Calliope's Beatrice is  _you_ \- modified to fit the book's specifications, with brown hair instead of blonde, and with novel-appropriate clothes, but the facial structure is unmistakeable. And the mother is yours - probably scavenged from online photos you'd taken with her prior to the book's publication - with nothing changed. The likeness is uncanny. The two stand on opposite sides of the picture, you cast in the light, your mother in the dark. A broken bottle lies between you. You're stepping over it to embrace her.

You sit down on your stoop and weep, holding it to your chest. The street is empty, at night.

 


End file.
